After a week or so of exploring, getting a feel for the island - a map of it, the buildings, the architecture, what metals lay dormant in the soil - Erik decided that he ought to really think about looking into work of some kind. He continued to be dubious about how fine the natives of Vallo happened to be with interlopers, and whenever the inevitable fallout happened he had no desire to be anywhere in the middle of it - that had already occurred for him, over the course of many years, and it wasn’t something to be repeated.
He preferred to work for another kidnapee, as it were, and he recalled speaking with a woman on the communication device about a smithy she owned. That seemed perfect to him, so he headed for the waypoint that led to the forest. It was pleasant beyond the city, at least, in the forest, a deep green and the floor covered in brown needles, the whispering trees and the overhanging branches; he liked the way the scent of pine mingled with the breeze.
And when he did arrive at the village where the smithy was located, he had to take a moment to just stare for a moment. It reminded him of his time as Henryk Gurzsky in that small, rural Polish town, where asphalt disappeared into dirt roads, the shrieks of pigs and chickens and cows heralded visitors, and wooden carvings on windowsills were old and considered works of art. This also twisted whatever was left of his heart a little, as he thought of Magda. Of Nina.
But he steeled himself, as he always did, and headed for the smithy entranceway, tapping on the door. “Brigitte?”
It was just a stroke of luck, really, that Brigitte heard her name being called in-between hammer strikes. But it was pronounced correctly, by a voice she didn't recognize. Still, it was enough to get her to put her shaping hammer down and lift the goggles from her eyes to her forehead as she walked towards the front door. She'd eventually find someone to hire and maintain the front of the shop, but until then it was going to be largely hit or miss if someone was around.
She pulled off her gloves as she rounded the corner, already launching into her New Customer speech. "Welcome to Papa's Pride, your village destination for all things smithed or engineered. I'm Brigitte. What can I do for you?" She knew she looked, and probably smelled, like someone who had been working with fire and metal all day, but she suspected anyone coming here would expect it.
That particular scent was definitely the fragrance of someone who worked with metal - the oils in the skin reacting to iron, to copper, and he didn’t find it an unpleasant smell in the slightest. He was used to it, and was probably more receptive to it than most. “My name is Erik,” he held out his hand for a shake, a proper greeting. “We spoke on the network, when I first arrived? I wanted to come and see your smithy. Possibly inquire about work?”
He didn’t have a printed résumé or anything, but hopefully that didn’t matter. “I’ve little formal education,” he continued. “But I’m familiar with hard labor and skilled in metalworking. I’m also fluent in four languages and proficient in four others.”
Essentially, he hoped he could be useful here. If not, he’d try and find something else. Perhaps in this village, since now that he’d been here he was more comfortable with the idea of working out in a more rustic environment than a noisy city.
Brigitte's eyes lit up in recognition when he mentioned his name and referenced their discussion - largely because she wasn't sure if he'd remember or take her up on it. It was difficult finding people who wanted to work in either the smithy or the workshop out back. Well, she'd hoped with the arrival of her workshop, more people might be interested in the mechanical engineering aspect of her work, but any business is good business.
She tucked her gloves into her belt and waved a hand dismissively. "I remember! Thanks for coming out." She smiled and approached him with her hand out, in case he was the type who liked to shake hands. She never knew, so hopefully it was respectful to at least offer. And since they were almost the same height, at least it wouldn't be an awkward handshake. As she walked closer, she continued. "Every world is different. In some, experience outweighs an education. Why don't we start with telling me about yourself?"
Erik clasped her hand in his, a firm handshake - nothing painful, of course. But he didn’t do anything half-assed. “Right, let’s see...” Talking about himself tended to poke a pin in any sort of good mood, considering his less than cheery background. But if Brigitte wanted to know, he would tell her - and he would try to keep it brief. No need to go on and on, when he could easily summarize.
“I was born in Germany. My mother was a schoolteacher, my father was a first world war veteran who mended watches. It was a time of persecution, I should say - we were forced to live in the Warsaw ghetto and myself and other Jewish children acted as smugglers. When my father was killed, my mother and I fled elsewhere. We were captured and brought to Auschwitz, separated. When she was killed in front of me that was when I finally realized I had...something different about me, even though I had crushed the metal of the gates that separated us without even touching it.”
He flexed his fingers and thought about where to go next, in terms of talking about himself. “When Auschwitz was finally liberated, after that, I did a lot of things. I worked odd jobs and traveled all over. I was infuriated that so few Nazis were ever tried and held accountable for their crimes - so I hunted them down. I found others like me, others with powers. But the world always feared us, never accepted us,” he said. “After many years I created an island called Genosha, a refuge for my kind. Then I ended up here.”
As a child who grew up during war, she could somewhat empathize- at least at the start. The more he talked, the more she realized just how far back in Earth's history he came from and it ached her heart to know what all he'd been through. Tempted to interrupt because it sounded so painful a thing to get out, she opted to just let him tell his story. Maybe it was more therapeutic to get it out in the open. She was, after all, already on the side of those that were oppressed. Fighting in defense of the oppressed was how she'd spent the last five years with Reinhardt, even. And hunting down villains was nothing new in that respect, either.
She knew there was nothing she could say to soothe over his very clear hurt, so with a softened expression she instead just reached to lay a hand on his shoulder, briefly, before dropping it and turning towards the workshop. She hoped that would be enough to show concern. Words would never mean anything. "I hope that you, in time, can find this place to be a refuge of sorts as well." And for lack of anything further to add, she just gestured for him to follow her into the smithy. Maybe the forges, furnaces, anvils, and variety of tools would be a good mental distraction for him. After that, he could see the workshop, where the real magic happens.
And to think that wasn’t even the whole thing - Erik left out being Schmidt’s prized experiment, the way he’d purposely get the young boy attached to the more sympathetic Sonderkommandos who brought him food, and then would execute them. He left out the way that he’d been forced to execute even more Sonderkommandos after the revolt, that by the time Auschwitz was liberated, he was utterly shattered as a person.
He left out Nina and Magda, about how he’d tried to play by humanity’s stupid rules and couldn’t, because that’s not what Frankenstein’s monster was supposed to do. Sometimes talking helped, but not about them - he hadn’t tried to talk about them in a very long time. It hurt too much, pain licking up his back like a wildfire, acid in his blood.
Still, he appreciated Brigitte’s response. It was empathetic without being chock-full of pity. Or false sunshine. “I suppose we’ll see,” he replied, nodding, following her into the heart of the smithy. “This is - a place from your home? Is it something you ran there too?” He was curious about how such a place ended up in the forest.
"The smithy, no. It was here already, but was run by an older man named Griff. He retired and let me run the place as long as I kept up his high standard." With that statement, Brigitte turned her head and winked. "I think I have, at least."
She gestured towards a door that led out to the back where she used to keep scrap and continued. "Out that door is the workshop, which yes, appeared early this month and is mine from home. I'm not sure how Vallo does it, it finds things attached to us in some way and gives it to us. I like to think it rewards us for being productive members of whatever society it's trying to build." Which felt a little weird to say, and she had never felt threatened by whatever entity Vallo was - if it was an entity at all and not just chaos.
The idea of things showing up as some kind of a reward also had Erik feeling somewhat dubious. Perhaps because there were very few material objects that were important to him - he supposed the school could show up, even after it had been destroyed and rebuilt, but that was more Charles’ thing (despite how he’d run off to Europe and left the school in Hank’s care). He once tried to get Erik to teach there, but he declined. There was little hope of him even being a good teacher anyway.
No, he was better suited for work like this, in a place like this - where he could work long hours at an anvil, pounding red-hot metal from the forge into tools and equipment, or weapons, whatever the assignment happened to be. He’d rather do that than think about how he wasn’t on Genosha anymore, where you had a view of the sea from every hilly vantage point, and could take in stunning turquoise waters. Where everyone worked as a team, where they were rich in community.
“What would you need help with?” he asked. “I’m not always the best at dealing with people, but I recognize that’s probably part of the job.”
"We've recently run low on general stock due to donating a lot to the local farms when the killer rabbits attacked," answered Brigitte, as if she were talking about everyday events in this place. "So shaping some new blades or different types of armor will always be helpful. There's always a need for farming implements like pitchforks, shovels, plows, that kind of thing."
She realized she was throwing a lot at him and turned to face him again and smiled. There really was no end of things to do at the smithy. "Which would you think you'd do better at? To be honest, a willingness to work and learn is enough for me."
Killer...rabbits?
The look on Erik’s face was probably downright comical - he could talk about his traumatizing youth caught up in Nazi Germany without batting an eyelash, but mention something like bunnies that committed murder and he was definitely thrown for a loop.
Brigitte didn’t elaborate though, so he wouldn’t either. At least not right now, maybe later. His curiosity had been stoked - what sort of strange world had he landed in? “I can do both,” he assured. “Armor, farming materials - I once lived in a rural village like this, when I settled in Poland for a time, so I’m familiar with those and could make them sturdy, good quality. If you have a particular design for blades and armor, just let me know and I’ll follow it exactly.” He could work off samples, molds, or even sketches - metal always did what he wanted it to do, that wasn’t a problem.
“I’ll be glad for the opportunity to work and learn. I don’t particularly care for staying idle.”
"Well then!" announced Brigitte, taking heart in his reaction, since it had been largely what she was going for. "Welcome to Papa's Pride, we don't have nametags or uniforms, just hard, honest work. And you get to exercise your creativity. Most of what we do here in the smithy is fairly standard, barring custom work, which will vary by customer. I have molds and shapers, which you can use as much as you like, and you're welcome to copy any existing work we have here as well."
She tapped her nose in thought for a second, as if to try and see if there was anything she forgot. "Oh! And the best part is we have a running group tab for beers and food at the Quills for after-shift recuperation. I settle it up every Monday, so it's important to treat yourself after a long day."
“Oh?” That seemed like a perk. Erik did enjoy a good beer or two, and sometimes he enjoyed the bite and sting of alcohol a little too much in general - but he tried to avoid getting cloudy, because the last thing he needed was to not be completely sharp, one-hundred percent. But it sounded like a nice way to wind down after working hard. “I’ll keep that in mind. Thank you - and thank you for the opportunity.”
He was glad he’d come by. Maybe he would never be overly settled here - he hesitated, for more than a few reasons - but he could have something to fill his days with and that was good enough for now.